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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29954208">Modern Loneliness</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemone_white/pseuds/Anemone_white'>Anemone_white</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fate/Grand Order, Fate/Zero</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Gil and Arturia are looking for love in all the wrong ways, Modern AU, broken people attract one another, it's okay to not be okay, traumatic childhood</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 01:08:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,753</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29954208</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemone_white/pseuds/Anemone_white</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Arturia Pendragon is a broken soul, her childhood trauma relentlessly haunting her. And how do broken people cope with the demons inside of them? Not well, not well at all.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gilgamesh | Archer/Artoria Pendragon | Saber</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. It's hard to stay</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi y'all. I'm not quite sure where to begin with this little number. I plan for it to be longer since I want to flesh some stuff out, but also I promise nothing in terms of updates. Now onto the topic of the story. I think the best way to describe it is my own convoluted way of depicting how parental neglect and emotional abuse really messes with people as they grow older. Me being me, I wrote it is a really round-about way, aka my "style". I can't speak for anyone's experience except my own, and those close to me. Hopefully I have captured the essence of emotional trauma well enough.  This first chapter is more so put out there as like a feeler chapter. I usually don't write in first person, but I wanted to give it a shot this time round, it's all first person Arturia! Important note, I don't have a beta, so all grammatical mistakes may or may not be fixed as I catch them. Otherwise I hope you guys enjoy! </p><p>p.s: Gil does exist, just not in this chapter yet. Soon my lovelies, soon!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s a curious feeling, to be surrounded by so many people and yet feel so abjectly alone.</p><p>I wonder if anyone else, in the middle of the night when sleep is an elusive mistress and our thoughts act as uncomforting substitutes, is deluged by this wave of loneliness?</p><p>Certainly, irrefutably, I cannot be the only one.</p>
<hr/><p>My throat is parched and I am still in that dazed state of half sleep and half consciousness when the soft brush of fur tickles my nose and awakens me. The white dog, resembling a mélange of a toy poodle, Shiba, Shih tzu and a litany of other adorable and small breeds, continues to show his love with a barrage of licks.</p><p>Gently, I scratch him behind the ear and place him onto the lap of my crinkled black dress. The chignon that held my hair had long been roused into a mess and the layered-on-too-thick makeup has certainly smudged against my white sheets.</p><p>The room basks in the burnt orange glow of twilight; warm and a reminder of the last moments before night descends. I would say it’s beautiful, but it is meaningless to give such a compliment. It’s all so meaningless.</p><p>The clock reads 4:35 pm. Two hours has passed since that debacle of a gathering ended and the assembly of social ladder climbers, nefarious old accomplices and bitter, wealthy housewives vacated the grounds. Three years had passed since I last saw her face. Little difference it made though, glancing down at her, cold and expressionless in the coffin, compared to the austere of her normal gaze.</p><p>With a sigh, I place Fou aside and he lays his head on a pillow, watching me silently.</p><p>“ Why are you so glum? Your mother didn’t pass away.”</p><p>Fou whimpers and I know that’s his sign for more petting and human attention. I deliver the diva what he desires and proceed to run my hand through his soft, white fur.</p><p>“ You’re likely more disheartened by her death than I am.” I say to Fou, though how much of this he’s listening too, or cares enough to listen to, is debatable. “ I don’t have any tears to cry for her. I’m a terrible daughter, aren’t I?”</p><p>Fou raises his head at my question. He pushes my hand away and walks the short distance into my embrace, snuggling me and thereby answering the question.</p><p>The tears don’t come, regardless of my efforts. The pains of childhood etch strong memoires into your heart, a tangle of dark emotions that spins itself into an interwoven web of resentment, anger and pain. So much pain, even if it cannot be seen. Right now, I cannot think about anything but the pain she caused me.</p><p>I’m a terrible daughter, but she was also a terrible mother.</p>
<hr/><p>It’s a paradox. Your name is meant to be used, but there then comes a point in which the mere utterance of it causes a visceral reaction.</p><p>The estate, Camelot, has to be managed. Then, the finances: trust funds, stocks, bonds, whatever investments that man had passed onto her, Igraine, as she is unfit to be accredited with any other title, now passed onto their sole heir, Arturia Pendragon.</p><p>More paperwork. More signatures. Arturia Pendragon, Arturia, Art, just A.</p><p>The cramp in my hand throbs as the lawyer closes the mountain of paperwork, completing the novel of the Pendragon legacy.</p><p>“ When do you plan to move into the estate, Ms.Pendragon?” asks the amiable lawyer, elated that his office had the privilege of earning the remunerative consulting fees.</p><p>“ Never.” I rummage through my purse, pulling out a card case. I slide the card of one “Bedivere Williamson” across the unnecessarily large oak desk. Beautifully handcrafted, but opulence for opulence’s sake was in poor taste.</p><p>“ My financial manager will handle the logistics of boarding up Camelot, along with the allocation of severance fees to the employees.”</p><p>“ My lady,” he begins, clutching the card in his now sweaty palms, “ I was under the impression the Sir Uther Pendragon as well as Lady Igraine left all legal proceedings for the estate in the capable hands of Tellson and Co.”</p><p>I drum my fingers lightly on the tulle of my dress, wondering how much longer I needed to hear the name Pendragon repeated incessantly. “ You are correct. And I will continue paying the fees for the services you provide. However, my decision to close the halls of Camelot and the workings of your office are currently mutually exclusive. You worry yourself about the property, it’ll remain, just unlived in.”</p><p>“However, Ms.Pendragon, I would advise…..”</p><p>I’ve heard enough. Standing, I straighten my dress and gather my things. “ Any further questions can be forwards to my associate on the card. Good day, Mr. Wellington.”</p><p>“But that’s sanctimonious for you to be doing this!”</p><p>I hear him call as I gently close the door behind me. I chuckle while walking past the receptionist and giving her a wave goodbye. Didn’t he know? People with money and power did whatever they wanted anyways.</p>
<hr/><p>Fou lounges on my lap as I scroll through the endless pages of emails. The long, L shaped couch is more than sufficient for his lounging needs, but evidently, he still enjoys laying on my lap. It’s an old habit he developed as a puppy, back when he would be frightened by even the wind. Care under Merlin in his infancy, though I have never been privy to the technicalities, seemed to have imprinted itself prominently.</p><p>Speaking of that eccentric tutor, I see an email with his username. Odd, if he had wanted to contact me, he could have called. But Merlin was Merlin exactly because of his infuriating unpredictability.  After clicking it open, it becomes evident that this is a forwarded job opening.</p><p>
  <em>Litigation Lawyer recruitment for the Nile Delta Consulting Group. Office: Tokyo, Japan. Head of litigation: Merlin Taleisin.</em>
</p><p>I let out a sigh. No other information is included in the email besides a description of the job’s role, but even without context, Merlin’s message was conveyed. Come to Japan.</p><p>It is tempting. Not the consulting work, not Japan, and especially not Merlin, but the concept of a new beginning. There is nothing left in England. The work being done for Parliament is asinine and pushed by the agenda of big industry, those that call themselves my friends only do so when it conveniences them, and the sole person keeping me in this country is freshly buried six feet under. That man is long dead and Igraine joined him at long last. Two miserable souls, hell bent on forcing their will upon others.</p><p>I should feel remorse, instead I recall a passage from the bible, <em>As it is written, There is none righteous, no, not one</em>. A terrible daughter raised by terrible parents.</p><p>I should feel liberated, the last chain gone, the shackles falling and the yoke sliding its weight off my shoulders. Yet, the taste of liberation is bittersweet. I want relief, not this hollowing emptiness.</p><p>It feels like I am suspended in a state of limbo. I am free to do as I please but I do not know what I please to do. I am in a place where I do not want to be but I do not know where I do.</p><p>Choices, choices, choices.</p><p>
  <em>You are a Pendragon. You could be so much more. More, more, more.</em>
</p><p>Fou whimpers and I am brought back to the present. I take a deep breath, counting to ten, thinking of nothing, focusing on emptying my mind.</p><p>When I open my eyes, the decision is made.</p><p>Japan.</p><p>Some place where I have my anonymity, some place far far away from these past demons.</p><p>I type a quick reply to Merlin’s email. <em>I’ll go.</em></p>
<hr/><p>Earl grey, poured into a dainty blue and white porcelain cup, is served by the cheerful secretary. There is a bounce to her step and while I can see the dark circle under her eyes, her smile is infectious. Her lush brown hair that glistens against the glim of her bronzed skin hangs to her waist and is tied with a purple ribbon, accentuating her youthfulness.</p><p>“Thank you.” I say, taking slow sips of the tea while we both wait for the CEO to arrive. Glancing around the room it becomes evident that the CEO’s eye for design is unique to say the least. A stone bust of Anubis, a wall devoted to hieroglyphic-like writing , and then pyramids. Paper weight sized pyramids, chair sized pyramids, all-sized pyramids, casually and conspicuously displayed throughout the room.</p><p>Eclectic, that’s the word to describe the office’s decorum.</p><p>The secretary introduced as Nitocris, kindly answers the question looming in my head.</p><p>“ We refer to the CEO as pharaoh.” She explains,” It’s part of embracing our history and legacy. The pharaoh takes this as a point of pride. Therefore the result is…..” she does a sweeping gesture of the room. “ I assure you though, the Nile Delta is nothing but professional in its workings!”</p><p>“Of course we are!” comes the boom of a deep baritone. “ I see you are singing our praise, Nitocris! As you should!”</p><p>A tall man with the same glistening bronze skin and slicked back brown hair, sits down in the lounge chair adjacent to mine. He takes off his suit jacket, pinstriped blue, and exchanges it with the documents in Nitocris’ hands.</p><p>“ Arturia Pendragon.” He says, as if contemplating the taste of the words in his mouth. “ A good name. Any person with the honors of having the word dragon in their name is a worthy employee indeed.” He did not even look at the documents,” Nitocris, she’s hired!”</p><p>“But Pharaoh!” she cries.</p><p>Instead of surprise, a sense of déjà vu washes over me. When and of whom have I been the victim of these types of antics before? While I am acquainted with more than a few self-proclaimed jokers, the most capricious and mischievous of the bunch would be that man whose name shall not be mentioned in fear of summoning him. I brush away the thought and make eye contact with the man Nitocris feebly is trying to reason with.</p><p>“Surely, you would want to examine my qualifications, Sir Ozymandias.” I say, already a bit exasperated.</p><p>“ If you are to be one of my employees, address me as pharaoh.” He says with a smile in which his teeth are coruscating in the rays of sunlight. “I have no need to further examine you, I am well aware of your capabilities.” He puts the resume on the coffee table, folds his hands together, and turns his full gaze towards me. “ Currently 28, enlisted in the British Armed Forces immediately after completing a law degree at Cambridge, of which all information is classified. You were honorably discharged for a torn rotator cuff a couple of years ago and proceeded to join a law firm with close ties to members of parliament, in which your father served as a MP for decades before his death. Then, abruptly you quit your job, apply here to join the lawyers on our Tokyo consulting team, and now you’re sitting in front of me!” </p><p>I frown, “ Many of the things you have stated were not listed in my resume.”</p><p>He laughs a deep boisterous laugh, “Courtesy of Merlin. He even mentioned your Olympics stint!” My frown deepens, that man and his loose lips. Ozymandias continues to stare quizzically. “ Truth be told, you were hired the minute Merlin referred you. While his methods are highly questionable at times, he produces quality results.”</p><p>That sentence succulently sums up his nature.</p><p>“ Even I’m not that inconsiderate to ask a person to fly to Japan just to reject them in person. However, I have a personal opinion you should be aware of.”  I eye him skeptically.</p><p>“Arturia Pendragon, you are overqualified for this job.”</p><p>Opinions, opinions, opinions.   “ I think that’s for me to decide.” I say tersely, eyes locked on his.</p><p>Ozymandias shrugs and gestures for Nitocris. “ Take Arturia Pendragon to the lower delta floor and give her a quick tour. I’ll leave the paperwork to you.”</p><p>“ Certainly, Pharaoh.” She says with a smile. “ Ms.Pendragon, follow me.”</p><p>“ You may skip the formalities and call me Saber.”</p><p>Hearing this, Ozymandias shoots up and claps his hands on my shoulders. “A wonderful codename that is! Is that what you were referred to in the army? I believe my codename would still rightfully be Pharaoh.”</p><p>I gently shrug his hands off my shoulders, “for proprieties sake, I ask that you still address me as Arturia Pendragon. Now if you’ll excuse me. It was a pleasure.”</p><p>I see Nitocris’ smile falters as her eyes widen and jaws drop as panic sets in. It is most likely in anticipation to his response, stirred by my curtness. In my experience, the higher ranking a man, the more sensitive his ego is. Instead of a loud outburst of anger, Ozymandias belts out another hearty deep laugh.</p><p>“ You have spunk. I like that.” Nitocris exhales a sigh of relief. “ Welcome to the Nile Delta Financial Corp! You’ll be a good addition for this branch.”</p>
<hr/><p>Introductions proceed in a whirlwind. Nitocris, with accuracy and grace, spews out names and facts about employees so quickly that her words morph into the chanting of a mantra. The passersby give perfunctory nods or acknowledgments and then return to work. Laboriously analyzing tomes of legal jargon.</p><p>Nitocris stops in front of a glass office where the white shutter blinds are closed. “ This is Merlin’s office.” She checks her iPad quickly. “ The secretarial logs says he’s currently out of office.  Shame but that's only a trifling matter though!" She points to the empty space next door. "That office will be yours. It'll be ready for you by the end of the week. Most of our employees are non-native Japanese individuals since we are an international group, but if you need help with any Japanese related matters, I can direct you to the right personnel!" She really was a kind girl, my fondness for her growing. "So how are you feeling Ms.Pendragon?”</p><p>Truthfully, I’m not feeling much. I am going with the motion, oscillating between fatigue and annoyance. The reality of my situation has yet to set in and it feels like my head is underwater, trapped by its murky and muffled depths.</p><p>“ A bit fatigued, very likely the jetlag .” I answer with a spurious smile.</p><p>The smile Nitocris gives is warm and genuine, “ It’ll get better, everything always does!”</p><p>But does it though? I just nod in reply.</p><p>As we both turn to leave down the corridor, I catch the fluttering of a flower shaped post-it note near the handle of Merlin’s door. Taking it in my hand, I see that the flower is a pink Sakura.</p><p>“ That’s Merlin’s personal post-it. Odd that he stuck it on the door.”</p><p>No, it was not odd, it was typical Merlin taking the circuitous route for everything. It read “ dinner 7pm, ramen ginza.”</p><p>“Nitocris, how many ramen restaurants are there in Ginza?” I already knew the answer to my own question, but I wanted to assure myself that the man who should not be named is ridiculous.</p><p>The Egyptian looks at me as if I’m asking a trick question, “ A lot?”</p><p>I crumple the Sakura note in my hand, “ That asshole.”</p>
<hr/><p>Merlin does not pick up his cellphone, does not answer his email, perhaps telepathy would be more fruitful. It reminds me of childhood though, back when I was relocated to Kay’s house in the countryside and Merlin came as an unwanted bonus to the experience. On paper he was hired as a tutor by Sir Ector, through the request of my mother, but in reality, it was a constant game of keeping up with Merlin’s antics.</p><p>One of his favorite antics to pull was the cryptic message. As few details as possible were given, the objective being to locate him through wit and tenacity. Needless to say as a seven year old, I hated this game passionately.</p><p>Perhaps the secret answer was telepathy. Knowing that he would pick the most obscure of obscure places, I found this restaurant after asking some of the employees at the office. And lo and behold, the first restaurant I walk into has Merlin sitting at the front counter, face deep in a bowl of ramen.</p><p>“ I hope you don’t mind that I ordered first.” He says as he finishes the last bit of his noodles. I glare at him with much, much reproach. He just gives that innocuous shrug and grin combo. “ I was famished after work, what can I say.”</p><p>Why am I here? I could be in the comforts of my own apartment right now.</p><p>“Don’t leave yet, Arturia! You haven’t even had their otherworldly ramen yet.” He pats the seat next to him, “ We have to catch up! Like old times you can tell big brother Merlin all your life’s worries!”</p><p>The disdain on my face must have been immense because Merlin chuckles. “ Just sit down, Arturia. You can spare 10 minutes to talk to uncle Merlin then.”</p><p>“ How old are you now? 50?” I say, hanging my black trench coat on the rack and sliding into the seat.</p><p>“ 48 to be exact but I don’t look a day over 30!”</p><p>“And mentally not a day over 3.”</p><p>He puts a hand over his heart, “ I take offense! I remember the days when you were 10 and would still come to me if Kay bullied you. Kids really are ungrateful, aren’t they?”</p><p>“ Depends on the parents as well.” The mood of the conversation shifts and Merlin is somber now. He should have attended Igraine’s funeral, but I do not blame him for refusing. Their last encounter consisted of baseless accusations being targeted towards him, towards me. Shouting, screaming, silence. He lost the match and I couldn’t stay with him, or Kay, or Sir Ector anymore.</p><p>Summer’s leash is all too short a date.</p><p>“ You know you’re free now, Arturia. You have been for a while, even if it doesn’t feel that way.”</p><p>I shut my eyes tight and try to envision this freedom he talks of. Instead, the image of Uther, austere and daunting, glances back at me. He eyes leer at me in disappointment. I was never enough for him.</p><p>“ Freedom doesn’t feel very free, Merlin.” The demons don’t stop chasing you, not in freedom, not in sleep, and only at death. “ It doesn’t feel like anything at all.”</p><p>The tension is broken with the arrival of a bowl of ramen, Miso with extra noodles and extra pork. “ I thought you would be hungry.” Merlin says demurely. He then places a bag of candy, jelly babies, on the counter. “ It took me a couple stores to fine this, but you did love to eat these after a meal. It’s nice to have a piece of home when you’re away from home.”</p><p>I stare at the ramen with all its extra toppings and the jelly babies, the oddest combination to find at a ramen store in Ginza, and I have the overwhelming urge to cry. Igraine never cared to learn my favorites, Uther even less.</p><p>Home away from home.</p><p>I did have a home, didn’t I? Even if it was just for a few years, that place was home.</p><p>“ Thank you.” I manage to croak out. The white-haired man smiles and ruffles my hair, ruining my chignon.</p><p>“Remember, There is a divinity that shapes our end.”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. It's hard to make good choices</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hiya! I'm back real fast this time. PSA, there is a small steamy part, super small. For those who don't want to read it, then skip the 2nd to last part. I don't think I'll be updating for a bit though, so don't get your hopes up that another chapter will be up soon.  Otherwise enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Organized sports, much like any other gathering of fanatics, is a cult. The Olympics and their participants may constitute the largest sports related cult in existence. In place of a religious leader, there is a religious artifact, venerated and coveted, that beguile all athletes. Olympic metals. To partake in the competition for this holy relic, people toil and bleed, the lines between them and their art blurring. Some even deign to cheating. It is the mentality of Olympians that creates such a deleterious toxicity, allowing for cult like organization to thrive and grow.</p>
<p>The metals are god, and for the sake of this god, we as obsequious servant shall do anything.</p>
<p>Perfection, perfection, perfection.</p>
<p>It’s regretful that I was formerly one of them, praying to the wrong gods and for all the wrong reasons. And explains my current self-imposed exile in the most secluded corner of the bar while the other athletes mingle.</p>
<p>It is a lavish affair, the centennial celebration of Japan’s participation in the Olympics. Mostly though, it is a poorly veiled publicity move to promote the tournament soon to be held in Tokyo. The function room has been transformed into a photo gallery that documents athletes who have both obtained the said holy relic and have honored Japan with a win. From winter sports, the mid-air snapshot of a quadruple axel, to summer sports, a woman preparing to dive off the board into the pool below, the myriad of black and white photos paint a lovely picture of dedication and success.</p>
<p>Bullshit.</p>
<p>I give the whiskey in my cup a gentle swirl before taking another sip. In an ingenious publicity stunt, the organizers invited all former Olympians to join in the jubilee. Thus, in this room you are either a politician, reporter, or former Olympian. Everyone is renown or high profiled, all characteristics I despise.</p>
<p>I down the rest of the whiskey and ask the bartender for another.</p>
<p>It must be an odd sight to see someone sulking at an invitation only event. Yes, that is exactly what I am doing though, sulking at the misfortune of Merlin’s loose lips. If he had not mentioned I was an Olympian, then Ozymandias would not have requested, in my opinion forced, me to attend and network.</p>
<p>Their expectations are too high. Everyone has this image of Arturia Pendragon, a so-called prodigy at saber fencing who surely will redefine the field. Little did they know that it was all pretense. It always is.</p>
<p>Merlin failed to elucidate the details of how I barely qualified at 19 for a position on the National Fencing team. Nor did he say that I did not attain any sort of accolade, a fact Igraine would reiterate time and time again.</p>
<p>So, I will continue to sulk with my whiskey in this little corner of mine next to the nice potted fern. The celebration started about an hour ago and the opening speech has been delivered. Ten more minutes should be satisfactory and then with a heavy heart I will relay to Nitocris how the event was a dud. Ten more minutes and I will be able to kick off these heels. The dress too, I can not wait to slide it off. It is lovely, truly. An eye catching black diaphanous bodice sputters into a long gown of satin and tulle, but it is too elegant and too revealing.</p>
<p>Nitocris likely picked this dress thinking it would be bold, attracting more potential clients of whom I am supposed to solicit to our firm.</p>
<p>Expectations, expectations, expectations.</p>
<p>It is not in the fine print of my contract, therefore I will simply enjoy this free expensive whiskey before bolting from this cult gathering and never looking back. The whiskey is about finished when a man, blonde and irrefutably not Japanese but also not European, slides into the barstool next to me.</p>
<p>I look askance at him, annoyed that in such a large gathering he chooses to bother me. He can take his matching white tux and shoes, along with his copious gold jewelry, and move five seats down.</p>
<p>“The seat is reserved.” I say in English, hoping he will get the hint.</p>
<p>He doesn’t, much to my annoyance. Instead, he signals for the bartender to pour a glass of wine, likely the same bottle he was consuming before as the gesture was effortless. Or he is just accustomed to having others cater to his whim.</p>
<p>Trust fund babies. When you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.</p>
<p>He leans in closer, encroaching on my personal space. I reach out with my right hand, and gently push against the top of his tux, fingertips barely grazing the soft satin. “ Sir, if you must talk to me, do it from a 6ft distance.”</p>
<p>He backs away with a smirk, his red eyes dancing with a glint of mischief. “ Quite an austere person I see. Yet, you are the most intriguing one amongst this gathering of mongrels.”</p>
<p>Did he just refer to everyone here as a mongrel? Something lost in translation?</p>
<p>I sip the remainder of the whiskey, contemplating whether entertaining this person’s whims would be beneficial in any regard. Nothing to lose, and a way to ease the tedium of this superfluous event.</p>
<p>I turn to him, stoic faced and say, “ How does my austerity interest you, then? There are beautiful women a dime a dozen floating around, and they would more likely be receptive to your misconstrued attempts at flirting.”</p>
<p>His smirk grows into a full smile, “ A challenge is more enticing than the low hanging fruit.”</p>
<p>“ You’re delusional.” I say, leering at him with disgust.</p>
<p>“ Ahh, my fair lady, even delusions can become reality.” He says, toasting his wine to me. “ With enough….” He takes a sip from the wine, slow to lift it to his lips, painstakingly slow to swallow, and even slower to finish his sentence.</p>
<p>Every minuscule gesture is hypnotizing, suspending me into a dazed state.</p>
<p>“Charisma.”</p>
<p>I stare at my empty glass. Had I drunk too much? I am lucid? Or is it this man?</p>
<p>I frown, telling myself that I am shocked from the audacity of this person. “ Nice try, but I am no more smitten by you than 5 minutes ago. I am also not lured by Olympic metals, that is, if you’ve won any.”  It is a low blow, but I rather he sulk off in anger than hold onto the delusion that this will go anywhere. Hypocritical as I’m still indulging him.</p>
<p>“ Then  I cannot beguile you with my gold metal? I cannot fault you.” He says with a sigh. “ It is a decrepit thing. My life’s worth far exceeds that of a singular object, one that is not even constructed from the finest ores. “</p>
<p>Perhaps my interest was piqued now. I am still woefully ignorant of his identity, though I know he is not a fencer nor an Olympian who competed the same year I did. “ In the eyes of many, especially those gathered in this room, you are the winner amongst winners, and they are the losers, content to even be invited to such an event. “</p>
<p>He is leaning in closer again, but I do not push him away. “ And are you a winner or a loser?”</p>
<p>My silence is the answer. But I am suddenly overcome with the need to explain myself to this stranger, to prove something to someone. Again, it’s the same story. Always the same.</p>
<p>My voice hardens, “ I do not intend to define my life with a singular accomplishment or lack of. Life should be… life is more complex than that.”</p>
<p>“Hmm,” he hums in reply. His face is too close, allowing me to see the finer details of his countenance. High eyebrows, a sharp nose, defined jaw, and piercing red eyes; ethereal in his surrealness. “ I propose a game of chess, the truest of all windows into a soul.”</p>
<p>If I had expected him to say anything, it was not this. “ Chess?”</p>
<p>“Scared to lose, love?”</p>
<p>He pushes all the right buttons and it is infuriating. “ Never.” I say, hook, line and sinker into his trap.</p><hr/>
<p>And that is how I ended up following a complete stranger to his penthouse suite for a game of chess. I was skeptical if there would even be a chess board there, but he had already baited me with that taunt, and I hate to lose.</p>
<p>Unsurprisingly, the penthouse is grand. The designer was evidently influenced by Renaissance art. I feel as if I had stepped into 15<sup>th</sup> century Italy, the large oil painting hanging above the fireplace solidifying that thought. The painting is reminiscent of Raphael’s style, perhaps it could even be a genuine Raphael, but what draws my attention is the chessboard. Color me surprised.</p>
<p>“Is this how you charm all your paramours? Through a competitive game of chess?”</p>
<p>In the few seconds I had been preoccupied with the decorum of the room, the blonde man had procured himself another bottle of wine and two glasses held between his fingers.</p>
<p>“ Chess is strictly reserved for those I deem worthy. Be honored.” He pours himself a glass, his hand so elegant in the gesture, and then he pours another, offering it to me. “ Ready for a crushing defeat, love?”</p>
<p>I take the glass and promptly chug it, “ Not to you.”</p><hr/>
<p>Two bottles deep into wine and a dozen or so tied games of drunken chess has loosen my lips.</p>
<p>“ I don’t know what I expected out of you, but definitely not such a strong opponent. L’habit ne fait pas le moine”</p>
<p>He is oddly quiet, staring at the board in deep concentration. I cannot discern whether it is true contemplation or a drunken silence. The potency of the wine begins to wreck its havoc. The bishop blurs with the rook, the black and white of the board morph into waves. I stare at him now, openly and unabashed. He’s handsome, very handsome, the type of handsome that women would commit deplorable acts to keep.</p>
<p>“You’re handsome.”</p>
<p>The blonde moves his knight. “ Checkmate.”</p>
<p>I turn to look down at the board, disappointed that I lost but shocked that I was able to implement any strategy in my inebriated state.  Instinctively I say, “ I declare a rematch!” Being a sore loser is not a good look, but that is what I am right now, a sulky, drunk, sore loser. “ And I want to pick the game.”</p>
<p>He twirls the queen piece in his hand, “Judging a book by its cover rarely goes well. Unless,” he enunciates this word while placing the queen in the center of the board, “ it is an interesting person.” The queen piece is dropped to the middle of the board. “Flattering me will earn you no favors. Why should the loser pick the game?”</p>
<p>There isn’t a good reason, nor a pithy remark to his question. I tilt my head and rest it on my palm in thought. This act exposed the entirety of my neck and I can see his eyes fixated on its curvature.</p>
<p>“Unless,” He says, his eyes not leaving that spot, “it is an interesting proposition.”</p>
<p>I am well aware that he is testing me, for what exact purpose I cannot discern. Now, choices, choices, choices. The logical decision would be to tell him he is a pompous asshole and leave, but the spiteful person in me wants to prove a point.</p>
<p>I rise and stand before him, reaching down to gently pull on his hand. The first touch is the catalyst for the whirlwind that follows. He’s up and his lips are on my neck, all his ministrations electrifying. Then his hands move to cup my face, lips to mine in seconds. I cannot even quantify it as a kiss, more so we’re furiously devouring one another’s face.</p>
<p>I’m breathless by the time our lips part. Our eyes lock in that moment and the urgency is palpable. The dress slides off easier than I anticipated and I am peeling away at the endless pieces of his tuxedo, the cummerbund becoming increasingly more cumbersome.</p>
<p>We’re both on the bed now, mostly naked and definitely horny. He might be a pompous asshole, but this man was performing magic with his hands. It’s rushed and rough, but the ecstasy is indescribable.</p>
<p>My head bangs against the board of the bedframe but pain is transient compared to the pleasure. I grip the fabric of the sheets as he pounds harder and harder, nearing my own peak. I know I’m losing this game right now and that is unacceptable.</p>
<p>He slows for a moment and I open my eyes to look at him. He is propping himself against the bedframe, eyes closed in deep concentration. I can tell he’s almost at his peak too. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I lean forward with all my weight and push him flat on his back.</p>
<p>His eyes flash open and those red irises stare back in mild surprise. The positions are flipped now, my arms cage both sides of his head and I lean down towards his ear.</p>
<p>“ I win.” I whisper, my breath hot against his skin.</p>
<p>A madman’s smile forms on his face. Leaning on his arms, he stretches his neck to devour my lips. “ Gladly.”</p><hr/>
<p>The rumble of my stomach wakes me from the dreamless slumber but it’s the pressure throbbing in my temple that keeps me awake. Hangovers and one-night stands, I was a bit old for this now.</p>
<p>I glance to my right and see the slumbering man, the first rays of dawn peaking their way through the curtains and creating an iridescent gleam to his hair. Bleh, handsome men only bring you grief. Uther had been the same in his youth; blonde, charismatic and divinely handsome.</p>
<p>Silently I slip from the bed, gathering my belongs one after the other. My ribbon on the end table, the evening dress on the ground, my purse on the sofa, and made my way to the bathroom. I snag one of the white robes hanging from the closet, a bit big but more than enough to get me to my own room with some modesty. The Olympic Venue was kind enough to offer all invitees a complementary hotel room, mine being located a few floors down.</p>
<p>I left silently. I will remember him, a talented chess player, insufferably self-important but great in bed.</p>
<p>There isn’t a soul in the hallways as I exit the elevator onto my floor. Everyone is likely asleep, exercising, or nursing a hangover, all in typical Olympian fashion.</p>
<p>After showering and changing into the pair of beige slacks and white sweater I bought, the sun has fully risen and the clock reads 7:00 am. I meticulously fold and store the dress in a carryon, perhaps Nitocris could return it or repurpose it. I disliked opulence and careless waste, more in spite of the old Pendragon money than out of the goodness of my heart.</p>
<p>It is 7:30 and I’m finishing the checkout process. I anticipate arriving at Nitocris’ apartment and getting Fou by 8 am, hopefully he hasn’t been spoiled rotten by then. Texting while walking, I bump into something, or someone specifically.</p>
<p>“ I’m terribly sor…” I begin to say, looking upwards. I didn’t finish the sentence because I see it’s the blonde from the night before. Our eyes make contact. </p>
<p>Fuck.</p>
<p>This isn’t how one-night stands with strangers worked. I was supposed to leave and never see him again, nothing but a distant memory of terrible decisions and too much alcohol. A moment to lament upon when thinking of the past, not a crisis to be dealt with in the present.</p>
<p>I quickly look away and disgracefully attempt to flee. He places a firm hand on my shoulder before I make it even three steps. “ Going so soon?”</p>
<p>Escaping is possible but making a scene so early in the morning would be more unsightly and incredibly inconsiderate. Curse you good societal manners!</p>
<p>“ I do actually have a previous engagement that I need to be at soon.”</p>
<p>“ I will drive you then.” He says matter of fact, “ then we can continue our game from last night.”</p>
<p>The bigger picture is lost too me, what is his ulterior motive? “ Thank you but our relationship was strictly for the night. It would not be beneficial for either of us to continue any sort of game.”</p>
<p>“ Why do you say that, love? I think it would be infinitesimally beneficial to me.” He’s just so smug. How many women has he won over with a single word? A single glance?</p>
<p>I push his hand away. “ And detrimental to me. Sir, please get the hint that you are being rejected.”</p>
<p>Throwing his head back, he lets out a rumbling laugh. “ You cease to amaze me, time and time again. At least tell me your name.”</p>
<p>People are starting to stare; I want this to end quickly. “No.” I turn away from him but he is quick to reposition his body to block me.</p>
<p>“Please.” He says and I am genuinely shocked. This isn’t how people like him work. “What’s in a name?”</p>
<p>“Okay, fine. Just refrain from reciting Shakespeare. You can call me Saber.”</p>
<p>“That can’t be your real name.” He says with an eyebrow raised.</p>
<p>“It isn’t, but that’s what I choose to be called and it shall be sufficient for you.”</p>
<p>“So much bite in your words.” He gestures for an employee to come over, “ I do find your moniker interesting and I will follow in your stead. You can call me Archer then. “</p>
<p>“ I will not be calling you anything since I will never see you again.”</p>
<p>As if by telepathy, a young Japanese man dressed in a well pressed suit, presumably a hotel staff member, hands Archer a pen and paper. He quickly scribbles down some numbers.</p>
<p>“ Fate and time are capricious. Hold onto this number until your ready to continue our game.”</p>
<p>“ You’ll be waiting till the dawn of time.” I say curtly.</p>
<p>“Some things are worth waiting for, Saber.” A shiver runs up my spine at the way he says the name Saber. It is all breath and charm, the low timber of his voice causing my legs to feel like jelly. It does not take a perspicacious person realize pandora’s box is staring right at them.</p>
<p>Opening this box would undoubtedly rain disaster and chaos upon my life, but how tantalizing the urge is.</p>
<p>These violent delights will have violent ends.</p>
<p>I stuff the paper into the pocket of the black coat and pivot to leave. This time Archer does not stop me, he simply waves goodbye.</p><hr/>
<p>The train ride to Nitocris’ apartment isn’t long, ten minutes on the Yamamoto and a brisk five-minute walk to a high rise complex. She should be expecting me, it is 5 minutes to 8 am, right on time.</p>
<p>To my surprise, the person who opens the door is a lean but muscular man with the warmest brown eyes.</p>
<p>“ Hello, you must be the Dragon.” He says in a deep baritone, the notes still rumbling in my ear even after he has stopped talking.</p>
<p>I give him a confused look.</p>
<p>“ It’s Ms.Pendragon, Arash.” Nitrocris interjects from behind with a sleepy Fou snuggled in her arms.</p>
<p>“ Looks like you had yourself a good time, Fou.” At the sound of my voice he lifts his head and gives a quiet bark. “Also great to know that you recognize me after all.”</p>
<p>“ He’s very well-mannered, Ms.Dragon.” Arash says scratching behind the dog’s white fluffy ears. “We’ll dog sit anytime gladly.”</p>
<p>“ It’s Pendragon, Arash! It would be rude to just refer to her as just Ms.Dragon.”</p>
<p>The man lets out a good nature laugh, “Shall we tell the Pharaoh he is being rude then? He solely refers to Ms.PENdragon, as the dragon.”</p>
<p>Am I surprised? “ Sir Arash, I think you would be wasting your breath. You can address me however you like.”</p>
<p>“Where are my manners! I forgot introductions. Ms. Pendragon, this is Arash Arsaces, my husband as well as the other secretary to the Pharaoh.”</p>
<p>This time, I let out a laugh, “I assume you two talk about everything BUT the Pharaoh.”</p>
<p>Nitocris looks abashed but Arash gives her a pat on the back, “ If we did talk about the Pharaoh, then we really would be with him 24 hours a day.” I grimace. “It is indeed…..a lot.” Answers Arash jovially, but I could hear the slightest hint of exhaustion in his voice.</p>
<p>I smile at him in silent solidarity. This all goes unnoticed by Fou who has fallen fully asleep. Nitocris places him into the mesh dog carry-on and waves goodbye.</p>
<p>“ Enjoy your trip to Fuyuki tomorrow and I hope the event last night went well.”</p>
<p>I wave back with a terse smile. Last night was in fact not well, but Fuyuki should be better, right?</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I don't speak French, so forgive me anyone who does if it's just wrong. And I think Nitocris and Arash are cute together, you need two people with the patience of a saint to deal with that man on a daily. Gil as a character is interesting, but you can't deny that he's a shitty person. Or so we think? I won't defend him, but he is definitely not as terrible as some of his "finer" moments. I like to think this Gil has the hottest of Archer Gil with some of the sense of CasGil. We'll see how it goes. </p>
<p>And tell me not that Saber would be an incredibly competitive person. Just me? Better yet, she really just has the hots for Gil, come on, who wouldn't, until he speaks that is. No slander to the King of Heroes, still love him.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. It's hard to stop drinking</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I like to think that words have meaning, and by saying that I did not anticipate updating anytime soon actually cursed me. I knew I was going to be busy, but then I got BUSY ( or lazy), whichever synonym you prefer. I will let you all read this chapter in peace, but here is a trigger warning about very negative and hateful thoughts experienced by Saber. It's not explicit or anything, just a lot of her own trauma. Enjoy! And remember, I am my own beta reader and I am a terrible one, so if you see a grammar issue feel free to let me know!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>To those who may claim that toddlers are menaces, I counter that appeal by saying animals are far more infuriating. Fou is being uncooperative, to kindly put it, this morning. The black mesh carry-on sits on the floor, devoid of a certain white furred animal. He is adamantly refusing to enter, whimpering and wiggling wildly from my hold whenever I approach the carry-on. Bribing him with treats prove to be as fruitless of endeavor as simply pushing him towards the opening of the crate. He acts as if the innocuous carry-on will deliver him to his demise, in his mind some nefarious plot is being conspired against him. That’s why this small dog, wearing less than 20 pounds, has conjured the strength to push back.</p><p>I stand, exasperated at his defiance. Even during the move from England, he has never been this defiant. I glance at the wall clock: quarter to 11, we’re going to be late.</p><p>“Fou.” I say, as if scolding a disobedient child, “ stop with the petulance. Come out from underneath the couch this instant.” Fou does not budge, remaining nestled in his hiding spot. I throw my hands up. Dogs, children, men, they’re all the same.</p><p>“Illya said she really wanted to meet you too.” I say more mumbling to myself but I see Fou’s eyes lift and direct his gaze at me in interest.</p><p>
  <em>Hopeful.</em>
</p><p>This must be a sign to keep talking. “ Shirou too, honestly the whole Emiya household eagerly wants to meet you.” Now Fou is crawling out from underneath the couch and slowly making his ways towards me and the supposedly accursed carry-on crate.</p><p>I reach out to pick him up and this time he does not struggle. “ You fickle little thing. Why were you acting so weird? Did you think I was taking you to Merlin’s?”</p><p>At the mention of his name, Fou begins to squirm vigorously in an attempt to escape. Poor baby, he must have been scarred by the years spent with Merlin while I was enlisted. In the moment it had seemed like a fine idea, it was Merlin after all who secretly left Fou at the Pendragon estate a few years after I had been dragged back. Merlin, through magic or stealth, snuck into the compounds during the dead of night and managed to climb his way onto my balcony with a white puppy strapped to his back. It was ludicrous but completely within the realm of an antic he would pull. He called the puppy Cath Palug. I immediately vetoed the name, opting to name him Fou after the sounds he used to make, half-way between a whimper and bark.</p><p>I fought tooth and nail with Igraine to keep him, compromising that I would qualify for the youth Olympics the following year. And Fou was worth all that effort spent.</p><p>Then I enlisted, running away to fight in Afghanistan. There were thousands of miles between Igraine and I, yet it I could have ran even farther. The toiling days and immense strain of the work luckily numbed my mind to all else. But during those days I needed someone to look after Fou, so I sent him to live with his original owner. I do not think Fou has forgiven me till this day.</p><p>“ Don’t worry, love. I would never hand you back to that nutjob. We’re going to visit Irisviel and her family instead. Equally eccentric I fear to say though.”</p><p>I feel the need to explain myself to Fou, I am well aware that he understands much more than any human could fathom. Animals are perceptive to emotions and intent. Fou had been with me through the best of times and the worst of times, like a guardian animal of sorts. If guardian animals were a completely harmless ball of soft white fur.</p><p>This time, as I lower him into the carry on, he complies like usual. I look at the clock one more time, we’ll be late. I frown, I hated being late.</p>
<hr/><p>I walk briskly after the taxi drops me at the corner, my  gray woolen scarf around my neck unraveling itself in my rush. The Emiya residence is located in a secluded part of Fuyuki, one where maneuvering vehicles is inconvenient at best, it would be faster to walk as the expanse of gated Japanese manors began. Tall grey stone walls with their black tiled roofs poking outwards blur into one entity the more I pass, found at every turn and bend. In actually, some of these homes occupied swathes of land so large that I was likely following the walls of one home.</p><p>The Emiya house is a demurer, an unfair comparison to the Einzbern castle and the other manors nearby.</p><p>The main doors are now in sight.</p><p>To my joy and dismay, both Irisveil and Illya are waiting outside, bundled in matching fur coats and caps.</p><p>“ I’m late.” And I kept them waiting in the cold.</p><p>Irisveil already reaches over for a hug. “ Tardiness never hurt anyone.” The albino offers to take some of my load. “ I’m just happy you’ve finally made it here. We’ve all missed you.”</p><p>The fiasco this morning, followed by the scramble for the bullet train left me exhausted, but Irisviel’s words coax a small smile from me. “ Likewise.”</p><p>Fou’s crate wiggles a bit. “ I think this one here is getting a bit anxious too. Would you like to meet him, Illya?”</p><p>She had grown so much, having not seen her since I was first deployed. Even after returning to London, I failed to make good on my promise and make it to this side of the globe. I am always disappointing someone.</p><p>Illya is bouncing with the vigor only possessed by children. In a high pitched voice she answers, “Yes!”</p><p>She practically drags me into the house, also surprisingly strong. “ Shirou and papa are in the main hall.” We are in the foyer and I place Fou’s crate down to begin taking off my shoes, but evidently not with enough haste. “ Quick, quick, quick, Saber!!!”</p><p>This elicits a response from Fou who begins to wiggle some more in the crate. “ I see you’re not the only excited about this.”</p><p>“Saberrrrrrr.” Illya whines, “ Come on slow poke!”</p><p>“ I know, I know.” I say humoring her and placing my other bags in a neat pile Irisviel had made. “ Fou is a pretty magical being.”</p><p>Illya is dragging me again, as though my slowness could be rectified with her pulling. Irisveil simply lets her daughter be rambunctious, giggling at my awkwardness. When we all enter the main hall, Shirou gets up to greet us, this would be my second time meeting him in person, the first being when he was adopted after the fire ravaged Fuyuki ten years ago. Kiritsugu briefly glances up from his newspaper and gives a perfunctory nod, I nod back in acknowledgement. I turn to face the children while he continues reading his paper, this has been the dynamic of our relationship and will likely never change in the foreseeable future. I am content with that.</p><p>We are different yet more a like then I would like to admit.</p><p>“Sabeerrrrrrr.”</p><p>I am already unzipping the crate before Illya can say another word. “ Shirou, Illya, may I introduce you to Fou.”</p><p>The white fur ball stretches as he exits the crate. Illya is on cloud nine as she reaches to pet him. Fou has always been a mild manner dog, so he lets Illya stroke his fur and revels in all the attention.</p><p>“ Let me hold him when you’re done, Illya.” Shirou says, trying to hide his excitement and maintain an air of maturity.</p><p>Fou basks in all the attention, that smug little thing. “ Fou, you’re never this happy to see me.”</p><p>The dog is not even paying attention to me, too preoccupied having his belly rubbed and being called a good boy.</p><p>“ Perhaps he is in his rebellious stage?” Irisviel jokes. “ Just like Shirou.”</p><p>“Hey!” Shirou says, face beet red, “ I am not!”</p><p>“Papa says not to lie, Shirou. Is this what puberty does to you, mama?”</p><p>“ You must be a man of caliber.” Kiritsugu says without looking up from his paper.</p><p>Shirou looks like he wants to dissolve into a puddle as his face becomes even redder.</p><p>I cannot help but think what a happy household this and smile a smile that never reaches to my eyes. Nothing like the cold house I knew. Expectations and archaic traditionalist ideals, it was a lonely and consuming sort of house.</p><p>“ It’s alright, Shirou.” I say reassuringly, “ It will get better after the hormones stabilize.”</p><p>He puts his right hand to cover his face. “ Not you too, Saber!”</p>
<hr/><p>It’s quiet now, the children having gone off to sleep and only the adults to keep each other company. Kiritsugu had slipped away in the bustle of bedtime pandemonium, likely retreating to his own dark and secluded corner to do whatever silent pensive men do.</p><p>Irisviel fills my ceramic mug, a glossy green and brown craftsmen’s object, with tea. We both settle ourselves into the cushions on the tatami floor and enjoy the peace.</p><p>“ At first, “ says Irisviel, breaking the silence, “ I couldn’t get used to sitting on the floor or even using chopsticks, but now it’s second nature to me. How times have changed me.” She finishes with a bright smile.</p><p>How sanguine of her.</p><p>I am happy that she is happy. She has earned this happiness, deserves it more than anyone. The atrocities conducted by Einzbern’s on her were inhuman. How strong she is to overcome the trauma of those scars, both metaphorical and physical. The Einzberns assumed she was a delicate rose, imprisoned in a greenhouse from her own frailty. But they were wrong. She didn’t need a greenhouse, she didn’t need protection, she didn’t need anything from the Einzberns, nothing but freedom. When Kiritsugu offered his hand, Irisviel grasped it so tightly, afraid even blinking would wake her from this dream and return her to the nightmare of her life.</p><p>I am happy that she is happy. I repeat to myself.</p><p>I question the veracity of my own sincerity the more I say it. Envy manifests itself in me, sitting there like a metastasized tumor. It is an ugly and deadly thing, waiting for a moment of weakness to consume me whole and waste my body to an irreversible emaciated state.</p><p>I could not even pretend to be happy for her. I’m so pathetic. Instead, the mud and muck of this emotion deluges me, making me feel sick to my stomach.</p><p>Where is my happy ever after? Is a prince charming coming to save me? Anyone to save me?</p><p>What about me?</p><p>The knot in my stomach tightens and the smile on Irisveil’s face is unbearable. I look down at my mug, now keenly interested in the texture of the material. My elusiveness doesn’t escape her keen eyes though, she was always sensitive to a person’s emotions.</p><p>“ Saber. Tell me how you’ve been.”</p><p>The knot continues to tangle and I don’t think I am going to be okay, but I’ve been through worse. I can continue pretending to be okay. I look at Irisviel and give a small smile, “ I’m okay.” I say, lying through my teeth and on the precipice of hurling.</p><p>She doesn’t buy into the lie, “ You’re tapping your index finger on the table. Some habits die hard.” I look away, not wanting to have this conversation right now or ever. “ Saber. You can’t keep doing this to yourself. Igraine is dead. Uther is dead. Don’t let them keep haunting you.” She cares dearly for me, and it is genuine and it is completely wasted on an ungrateful degenerate like me. “ Please love yourself like we love you.” Her hand briefly touches mine and I instinctively pull away. Her affection burns. The more she tries to love and help, the more I have to recede into my own inner world or I fear I will combust.</p><p>Irisviel’s brows draw together in worry. “ Coping is not a remedy. I know better than anyone that forgiveness is hard to give, but you need to forgive and forget or else you’ll continue to suffer.”</p><p>I don’t want to be having this conversation right now. Of course I know I should move on. I know I should seek help. I know that I shouldn’t be so fucking messed up in the head!</p><p>But it’s hard and I just hate them so much.</p><p>I hate Uther. I hate Igraine. The feeling is red and hot, a flame that persists and thrives on its own. A lifetime of anger and resentment doesn’t simply vanish. Even if they’re dead, even if I could have killed them myself, it doesn’t change anything. The wicked shall not be forgiven. Perhaps it’s the hatred that will cause my combustion and demise. Or will it be a meltdown? Slow and tortuous, that sounds more fitting for someone who is hell bent on suffering.</p><p>“ I can’t.” I say with my hands balled into fist so tight that it appears as if the bones will pop out. “ I would rather suffer then let them have this one solace.” I look Irisviel dead in the eyes. “ I’ll carry this hatred to my death.” I don’t wait for her reply. I rise and make my way to the bathroom and immediately turn the faucets on as high as possible, trying to to mask the sound of my dry heaving into the toilet.</p><p>No one understands and I don’t need them to. I am surrounded by people willing to give their love and support yet it is a hand I cannot grab. Instead, I stumble through this endless labyrinth. It is a constant repeat of feeling useless, of never being enough, of not being able to move on with my goddamn life even when the perpetrators of my misery are dead.</p><p>God, why can’t you guide me through these dark paths? Is it because I am also not enough for you? Are we not all your children?</p><p>No tears roll down my face. So, as I sit on the cold tile of the bathroom I contemplate my next move. I could listen to Irisveil’s advice or I could drown my emotions away in alcohol.</p><p>The question was rhetorical. I stand before the mirror, loosening my bun so that my blonde locks fall down and frame my face. Touching the dark bags under my eyes, I consider touching up with some foundation but it’ll be dimly lit in the bar anyways. Besides, who cares about appearance, for the first time I’m completely anonymous in a country.</p><p>My coat is slipped on and I am out of the door immediately. I send a text to Irisviel that I won’t be back till much later. The guilt builds in me, she only wants to help, but I don’t want help.</p><p>I chose to suffer and take this route to hell.</p><p>I am irredeemable, sold as slave to sin.</p>
<hr/><p>I drink because I hurt, but I hurt because I drink.</p><p>Maintaining sustained sobriety has become increasingly difficult since my discharge from the army, I find myself  reverting back to bad habits. Professionalism at work is a given, but during my personal time I instinctively reach for the bottle. It comforts me to feel the burn of liquor set my throat aflame, that’s how I know I’m awake and not in a dream. Otherwise, the world is mostly a daze. Day in, day out. Eat, work, sleep and repeat.</p><p>Take for example now. I am sitting alone at a high table in an unknown bar. The lights are turned down low and soft jazz resonates from the speakers. The unknown establishment is fairly busy, most tables being occupied by groups of young Japanese men and women. They probably knew the name of this place.</p><p>I’m not even sure if I’m in Fuyuki at this point. Did I walk here, did I take a taxi? It’s a blur the journey I took to reach this point, rather the need to set my body ablaze with alcohol acted as the force driving towards some beacon, somewhere, somehow. But what does it matter anymore? A bourbon in hand and the night young, the calm is coming soon, sweet serenity awaiting. I am at the precipice of euphoria, just a few more glasses and then everything will go black and true sleep will welcome me in its velveteen embrace.</p><p>The fuzziness muffles the music, shame, I rather liked the beat. It was calming. I like to be calm. I can hear the beating of my own heart. Duh, duh, duh. I place my hand over it and now I can feel the pulsing, rhythmic up and down, up and down.</p><p>I’m alive after all. I should have died in that explosion in Afghanistan. At least he was wanted and loved.</p><p>What happens next could entirely be a figment of my imagination. The blonde from the hotel, the attractive asshole, is sitting in the formerly vacant seat. I blink once, twice, three times but he’s still there when I open them. It would be unfathomable that coincidence could have led to this. He was instead a manifestation of my sexual frustrations.</p><p>I don’t speak, reaching for the glass since that solved most problems. His hand gently touches mine, preventing me from grabbing it.</p><p>What a curious thing, the characteristic smugness is devoid from his current countenance. He’s somber, his mouth curved downwards and brows furrowed.</p><p>“ You are drunk.”</p><p>He’s not wrong, or this metaphysical apparition of my sexual frustrations and awful taste in men, wasn’t wrong.</p><p>“ I am.” I replied, probably appearing crazy speaking to a supposedly empty chair.</p><p>“ You need to stop, I will call you a taxi.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a phone, but I quickly snatch it from his hand. The expression on his face is priceless, one part surprise, the other part mortification. I was going to give it back, I really had complete intentions to anyways.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>I slide his phone into my side pocket. “ No.” I say again. Rising, I stagger to my feet, the room dizzy with the sudden movement and I steady myself on the blonde’s outreached arms. I turn to completely face him, his handsome face consorted into an emotion I would say edges closer to annoyed. I probably was testing this imaginary man’s patient. “ Archer, tell me a story, preferably one with a happy ending.”</p><p>If he wasn’t upset before, he is now. Men get angry so easily. “ You need to go home.”</p><p>But I don’t want to, besides I don’t have a home, not really anyways. And I don’t want to be alone right now. The quiet doesn’t calm me, the soft jazz does, the white noise of talking does, but silence is terrifying.</p><p>The distance separating us is closed with a single step and I lean into him. It’s an awkward position, him still sitting while I rest myself on his chest, but I’m rather comfortable. He is warm and he smells of sandalwood, that does calm me. I look up at him, “ Stay with me for the night, even if this isn’t real.”</p><p>I can’t hear the words he says but there is a comforting sensation as arms envelop me in an embrace. I needed that hug.</p><p>Then the bar turns black.</p>
<hr/><p>The first thing I notice when my consciousness begins to stir is the silence. No jazz, no chatter, no clinking of glasses. The room is not dark, rather the lighting is muted so that a person could sleep while someone else engaged in other affairs, currently like the blonde lounged on a sleek white sofa in the corner.</p><p>Is this a dream or reality?</p><p>After pushing myself to a sitting position, I realize I’m laying in a bed that smells of the same sandalwood as the blonde. White duvet to match the white blanket, not particularly practical in my opinion. I see the blonde lower his book and place it adjacent to a glass of wine before he rises and walks the few steps towards me.</p><p>Our eyes are locked but neither of us speak. I wish he would break the silence.</p><p>He opens a bottle of water placed on the side table next to the bed and hands it to me wordlessly. I am still in a post-sleep, post-black out haze. The water helps though, the coolness of it negating the fire formerly burning amuck.</p><p>He sits on the edge of the bed, watching me as I drink the water. I lower the half empty bottle but he gestures for me to finish it, and seeing no logical reason to refuse, I do.</p><p>“Are you hungry?”</p><p>Truth be told, I am famished. Hunger though, stands at the bottom of the totem pole of importance. I am in an unknown location with a semi-unknown man after I had blacked out from drinking too much. My physical reactions are sluggish from excess consumption of alcohol, but I believe I could still adequately defend myself if necessary. Though, this man does not seem threatening in the moment, if he is not indeed a figment of my imagination, like some manifestation of a wild fever dream.</p><p>I am not sure where to begin in my reply, so I abruptly ask, “ Why are you being so nice?”</p><p>He incredulously scoffs at my remark. “ I am not sure what deplorable hedonist your mind has created me to be, but I believe myself to be a half-decent human being.”</p><p>“Half-decent?”</p><p>“No one is perfect, love.” He takes the water bottle from me and looks at me keenly. “ The color has returned to your face. You looked pallid in your inebriated state, more diseased than drunk.”</p><p>I must appear hideous, the lack of sleep and overall abuse of my body was being reflected on my face. To be fair, I probably did look like shit. None of that matters though. What consumes my thoughts now is the coldness I feel after the burn of the alcohol wore off.</p><p>I’m not sure why I do this, but I hold his outstretched hand in my mine and feel his body heat. He obliges my whims by not pulling away.</p><p>“ You must think I’m crazy.” I say to him after a few moments.</p><p>“ I think you need help.”</p><p>I’m not unset by the comment because I know I need help, I’ve known it for a while but stubbornly refuse to seek it. “ Are you a therapist now?” I ask gently.</p><p>“ No.” he says with a frown and a sigh. “ Simply far too acquainted with people who seek refuge with liquor.”</p><p>“ But you drink. A lot.”</p><p>“ Yes, but I am not a drunkard. Or rather I should say I vehemently refuse to drink to the stage in which I lose myself completely. I do not enjoy taking the easy route.” It goes silent again. I am still holding his hand and he lets me.</p><p>We are all more complicated than we initially appear.</p><p>“ I actually would like something to eat.” I reply.</p><p>“ Okay.” He says, tugging slightly at my hand so that he can get up, but I refuse to let go. He eyes me curiously. I have grown attached to the warmth of his hand and find myself reluctant to let go. “ Let’s go together then.” He finally says.</p><p>The entire situation is bizarre. I met my former one night stand from Tokyo at an unknown bar in Fuyuki while I was in the midst of drinking myself into an oblivion, proceeded to blackout in front of said man, ended up here in who knows where, and now I will be enjoying a quick meal before I reflect on all the questionable choices I have made in my life and all the emotional issues that I idiotically try to cure with alcohol.</p><p>I’ll think about it after food.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>People cope in bad ways, and Saber needs to stop drinking. Easier said than done. I think I took maybe one too many creative liberties with Gil as he's too generally charming and not enough ass-shat charming, I'm still trying to perfect this delicate balance. And this is now me just rambling, but anyone else a slow typer? I feel like I used to be able to pump out such long stories rather quickly, albeit of questionable quality. Now I kind of stare at my screen, type, stare some more, type type. Very ineffective but tis the path I have walked down. Any who, hope you kind of get a better feel for what the essence of the story is and you liked it!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So yeah. That was a ride. I can really imagine Arturia having some crummy parents who may or may not have intentionally inflicted emotional abuse upon her. Also, in my opinion Merlin is cringe "dad" to Arturia, unpopular opinion, I know. Comments, questions, concerns let me know. Otherwise stay tune for the next chapter!!! Hope you liked it and stay safe y"all!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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